Prey & Predator
by fanficwriter24601
Summary: Dr. Lecter has volunteered to assist a graduate student with her thesis. Upon meeting her, he finds her to be quite rude. We all know what happens to 'the rude' ... don't we?
1. Chapter 1

If patience was really a virtue, then Hannibal Lecter was a very virtuous man. It seemed to be that every aspect of his life necessitated patience. The truth was that he savored the time it took to prepare and wait for his plans to come to fruition, whether that be in the kitchen, his office, or elsewhere.

Tonight, however, he wasn't exactly pleased to be exercising such patience as he awaited the arrival of a visitor, a graduate student from New York. Granted, when traversing long distances, one could expect delays. However, this visitor was already 40 minutes late. In this day and age, mobile phones enabled persons to make contact with each other at the drop of a hat. To be 40 minutes late and not bother calling an expectant host was, in a word, rude.

Seven minutes later, the doorbell rang. Closing the book that had been resting on his lap and placing it on an end table, Hannibal got up from his seated position, straightened the cuffs of his suit jacket and then his tie before making his way to the foyer.

Hannibal's home was his retreat from the world and he reveled in mixing both the modern and the antique in his decor. Ornate rugs and long floor to ceiling curtains paired rather nicely with the rough wood of hewn timber and horns of creatures long since dead. Straightening one of the many small framed paintings hanging on the wall on his way to the door, Hannibal composed himself to meet his guest.

Swing the door open, his gazed alighted on the tall young woman standing on the porch. Her long dark brown hair, with its heat-imposed curls, framed her face and complimented the porcelain tone of her skin. She looked like a doll come to life in her dress that was better fitted to the 1960s than it was the 21st century.

Ever the courteous host, Hannibal step back and beckoned her inside with a sweeping motion of his hand.

"Do come inside, Miss Basil. I've been expecting you. How was your journey?"

"Fine, I suppose," the young woman replied as she stepped inside and began to unabashedly look about the foyer at the many adornments and artifacts he had on display.

Inwardly, Hannibal noted her rudeness in not apologizing for being tardy but did not outwardly show any sign of his disapproval. Instead, he watched as she brushed past him to make her way further into his home and caught a whiff of coconut shampoo with a hint of vanilla and a crisp pear scented perfume, so very light.

"You know, Miss Basil," Hannibal began, "I knew your grandfather very well. Roger Basil was a very fine man and a superb psychiatrist. He would be so proud to know that you are continuing his legacy."

"That's assuming he doesn't already know," Basil replied nonchalantly with a tilt of her head as she more closely examined a painting on the wall. "Or are you a proponent of nihilistic atheism that prohibits the belief in any sort of spiritual or consciousness continuance after death?"

"I think the living making statements on life-after-death is merely conjecture. Now, Miss Basil, if you'd like to follow me, I'll show you to the sitting room and we can discuss your thesis. Your faculty advisor said your theory of situational aggression having correlations to traumatic upbringings was rather unique."

"Yes, of course, Doctor Lecter," she replied with an impertinent smile that revealed a solitary dimple on her left cheek. "Lead the way."

Rather quickly, Hannibal was regretting volunteering his time to assist this young woman in her scholastic endeavors. Not only was she discourteous but she was also brazenly arrogant in her behavior and manner of speaking, a rash but rather an accurate assessment of a woman he had only met a few minutes prior. As they walked down the hall, he began to wonder how her liver would taste in a Pâte Brisée.

"Oh!" he heard her exclaim and he turned around to look as she picked up a recently acquired item from where it was displayed on a hall table. "What's this?

"That," Hannibal replied as he watched the young woman fingered the long-handled blade and turned it in her hands, "is a mid-19th-century panabas from the Philippines. It is rather fragile and the steel is so brittle that little of the original blade remains. So I'll ask you kindly to place it back on its display."

"Why such the long handle?" Basil inquired further, ignoring his request. "What was it used for?"

"Its primary use was as a chopping weapon. Though originally believe to be used as an agricultural tool, its effectiveness at chopping through meat led to it being favored in executions."

"I doubt this could kill anyone," she noted, examining the broken length of metal protruding from the hilt.

"Well, I think you'll find," Hannibal explained as he stepped over to the young woman and took the panabas from her in one swift motion and turned the blade upward and shoved it through the underside of her jaw with the next, "that sentiment to be quite false."

Her mouth went slack and her left eye-lid drooped in a manner that assured Hannibal that he had at least hit the frontal lobe of her brain. Leaving the blade in place as to reduce the amount of blood he would have to clean up later, he stepped back and let her fall to the ground. Basil would be dead in a manner of seconds if she wasn't already. Though his actions were rather impulsive, he felt nothing but satisfaction as he walked back to his book he had left lying next to his chair.

"Doctor Lecter?"

In utter disbelief of his senses, Hannibal slowly turned around.

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A/N: This story is cross posted on Archive of Our Own and due to FFN's limitation of explicit content that will be the only place you can read the complete story. You can find me there under either user24601 or fanficwriter24601. Feel free to message me if you would like the link as I cannot post it here.


	2. Chapter 2

"Doctor Lecter?"

In utter disbelief of his senses, Hannibal slowly turned around.

And there, without any plausible explanation, was Basil still alive.

She was standing, the panabas held firmly in her hand, in the doorway of the sitting room. Blood was slowly leaking from the wound at the base of her jaw and dribbling down her long slender neck and onto her dress. However, despite this, she seemed quite unfazed and in control of her motor functions.

"Doctor Lecter?" she inquired again, cocking her head ever so slightly to the left.

"Miss Basil, I..." Hannibal began but momentarily found himself at a lost for words. Unless he had suddenly gone mad, he knew full well that he had mortally wounded the woman. He had felt the blade as he had pushed it through skin, muscle, cartilage, and sinew. There was no reasonable explanation to why she was standing before him now.

The gears in his brain quickly started turning again and he began a mental categorization of the items close at hand that he could use as weapons. Just because she had somehow managed to remain conscious and mobile didn't mean that the young woman would not be susceptible to other injuries. Lecter wasn't about to let this failure get the best of him and he was more than willing to try ending her life again.

"Miss Basil," he asked, regaining his voice and his composure, "are you quite alright?"

Tilting her head back and exposing the underside of her jaw, Basil drew her long slender fingers across the wound. Streaks of red followed the trail of her touch as she gathered blood on her fingertips. Looking down briefly at her hand and the crimson moisture gathered there, she then turned her full attention on the man standing before her. With a downward flick of her wrist, she sent a spray droplets across the carpet and nearby furnishings.

"Yes," she replied, her bright blue eyes locked on his and without the slightest trace of a slur to her words, "I am quite alright. But you didn't know I would be, did you Doctor Lecter?"

"I merely assumed," Hannibal answered as he casually maneuvered around the room until he came to the far side of his drawing table, "that given the topic of our earlier conversation that you would not be disinclined to further study of consciousness after death."

A smirk colored the young woman's lips before she responded, "How thoughtful of you."

Without breaking eye-contact, Hannibal placed both of his hands down flat on the surface of the table. The fingers of his left-hand grazed the graphite utensils he used in his work and the tool used to sharpen them, a scalpel.

"I will have to admit I am curious," he stated in total truthfulness, "how it is that you are standing before me now?"

At this Basil laughed, rolling her eyes at him.

In the moment, Hannibal took the first initiative. Seizing hold of the scalpel with one hand, he vaulted over the table with the other. Closing in on her in two long strides, he did not believe her capable of moving fast enough to evade the wide swipe he made with the small blade.

He was wrong.

Miss Basil ducked at the last millisecond, the strands of her long brown hair lingered in the air above her. In that same motion, she lurched forward, hitting Hannibal's lower legs.

Knocked off balance, he crumpled.

Typically the brain censors out what it perceives as unnecessary stimuli. However, when falling, the mind experiences a heightened sense of awareness as that previously ignored stimuli comes flooding in all at once. To compensate, the brain slows down the perception of time to receive the excess information. This is precisely what happened to Hannibal in the mere seconds it took him to hit the ground.

Keenly aware of the slip of smooth Italian wool against his legs, the rush of air through the follicles of his hair, the ticking of the clock on the mantle, the movement of the armchair next to him toppling over in his wake, and the rigidity of the slim metal handle in his grip, he hit the floor hard. The impact knocked the breath out of him and reflexively his arms had shot out in a spread eagle type fashion order to lessen the blow.

In an instant, she was on top of him. A hand wrapped around his throat and another around his wrist.

Straddling his chest, she banged his hand repeatedly against the floor. His grip on the scalpel loosened. Clawing at the hand around his throat, Hannibal realized that not only was the young women seemingly invulnerable to physical attacks but additionally the amount of strength she possessed was abnormal for a female of her size and build.

If he was going to win this confrontation, he was going to have to fight dirty.

Reaching up, he grabbed her hair and yanked.

A screech fell from her lips as her head was pulled sideways and Hannibal took this momentum to twist out of her grip and pull himself out from underneath her.

Cradling his wrist, he backed as far away from her as quickly as he could. Now was not the time to lose his composure.

"Hair pulling, really?" Miss Basil remarked as she righted herself. "That's a bit juvenile. What's next, biting?"

A verbal repartee could distract her and Hannibal was not above resorting to such tactics.

"I would apologize," he said with a fleeting smile, "but then I would be apologizing again in the near future. Eventually, you would tire of my apologies so I will have to consider using them sparingly."

Hannibal cast his eyes around for the nearest weapon. The scalpel was gone, most likely had been flung underneath the settee when she had been striking his wrist repeatedly on the floor.

"You're an ass," she remarked.

"And you, my dear," he replied as his eyes landed on the panabas, "are rude."

Having been abandoned during the scuffle, the broken blade was a few feet away from either of them. All he had to do was get to it before she did.

However, Basil was just as attentive as he was and as he lurched forward to grab it off the ground, she threw herself at him.

They collided.

Falling together this time, Hannibal's head connected with the corner of the upturned armchair. Attempting to not let the impact jar him out of his the use of his faculties, he doubled his efforts to grab the young women's wrists so she couldn't get a hold of him.

Unfortunately, it seemed that hitting his head had impeded his motions and a swift and forceful punch to the face was all it took to render him senseless.


	3. Chapter 3

Drifting back into consciousness, the first thing Hannibal was aware of was the sound of running water. Wearily blinking against the light, he did his best to surmise his current state and the location in which his body rested. Facedown, it was only natural for him to first focus on the floor. The stark white tiles and plush green mat were the only indications he needed in order to deduce that he had simply been moved into the bathroom of his home.

As he tried to shift his off of his hands, which had apparently been bound in front of him with his own necktie, Hannibal suppressed a groan as pain shot up from his left wrist. It was quite possibly broken.

He only had one goal at this point: to get out of his bindings and to do it as quickly and silently as possible. Tugging at the knotted fabric with his fingertips, he wasn't able to get much leverage between his fingers and the folds given the space between his chest and the floor. He would have to move.

Rolling over to his side, his eyes came to rest on the back of a pair of stiletto heels. The bare skin of the young woman's legs drew his eyes upward and he quickly realized that she was no longer clothed in her three-quarter length dressed. Instead, she stood clad only in a matching bra and panty set.

However, her nudity was not what held his attention as his eyes rested upon her back. The swath of fair skin was colored with the pale pink of innumerable scars. Whoever had taken a knife to this young woman was an artist and most definitely a madman.

Miss Basil was bent over the sink in front of her, her dress presumably in the basin. As Hannibal had moved off of his belly, she must've heard him. Changing position as well, she turned to face him.

"I hope you don't mind," she said sweetly. "I wanted to try and get cleaned up before I head back home. I needed to use cold water to remove the blood. But you already know that, don't you?"

Nodding thoughtfully, Lecter's gaze rested on the dried blood that had trickled down between the woman's small breasts. He couldn't help but to notice that her front was covered with just as many, if not more, scars as her back.

"Do you think I am pretty, Doctor Lecter?" Basil asked, with a tilt of her head.

"Immaculate," came his reply.

Hannibal wondered if the unknown artist with the knife had been the reason Basil was so strong and capable of quickly recovering from serious injury. Given the highly unusual circumstances, it seemed like a logical conclusion.

The once gaping laceration under her chin was now just a small gash and, despite himself, Hannibal marveled at the young woman's healing abilities.

Having underestimated her before, his gaze was glued to her in an attempt to anticipate her next action. Seeing her pick up the panabas that had been resting on the counter next to the sink, his heart sank. Despite her apparent apathy, it was clear that she wasn't done with him yet.

Leveraging his weight along his torso, Hannibal kicked at Basil's feet in an attempt to trip her. Even with his hands tied, if he was able to get his arms around her neck, he could choke the life out of her.

But luck was not on his side as she avoided his attack.

With the panabas in one hand, she yanked him up on his feet and turned him around with the other.

A forceful kick landed behind his knee and it sent Hannibal falling.

With a splash, he found himself over the edge of the porcelain bathtub. The water that Basil had been filling it with was frigid. As the silk fabric of the tie which bound his hands quickly became soaked, the fibers swelled. Getting out of the knotted folds was now nigh impossible.

His knees smarted painfully from the fall and his belly ached from the having his weight pushed up against the rim of the bath. And any attempt to move became impractical as a hand twisted itself in his hair and the broken blade of the panabas was held against his throat.

This was it. This was how he was going to die. She was going to cut his throat and let him bleed out in the tub. He could attempt to sway her with verbal arguments to spare his life. However, that seemed like a futile effort.

Crouching behind him, Basil whispered in Hannibal's ear, "Correct me if I'm mistaken but isn't it wrong to try and murder your guests?"

"Have you killed anyone before, Miss Basil?" Hannibal asked, keeping his tone cool and collected. Though his heart was racing, this was the feeling he lived for: the sweet caress of adrenaline flooding his system. It was his nature and he could not deny it.

"I have not," came her curt reply.

"Then you don't know that morality doesn't exist and therefore there is no right or wrong," he said before swallowing, the sharpness of the blade ever present. "It is something you are bound to learn shortly if I'm not mistaken."

A harsh laugh met his ears and Basil replied, "You think I'm going to kill you? No, Lecter, that is not what I have in store for you. But, trust me, I'll come very close."

The blade was pulled back and the hand in his hair forced his head down farther into the tub. Basil had shifted so most of her weight was on her forearm that held him down. Keenly aware that, like her ability to heal, her strength was unnatural and he wasn't about to try and use what stamina he had to fight her while in this position. All he could do was remain still and wait for an opportunity to present itself. Meanwhile, he watched the water level of the tub rise higher and higher

The hard sound of metal on tile indicated that she had placed the panabas on the ground. A moment later and he felt her hand, the one that had been holding the weapon, on his belly as it drifted down to his groin.

_"Oh,_" he postulated to himself, _"maybe she's one of those._"

The idea that Basil was a sexual predator was one that he would have found particularly fascinating were it not for the fact he was her intended prey. Women were rarely placed in that category and even then, their victims were generally not able-bodied men.

Basil made easy work of his belt and the buttons and zipper below. She was slow and meticulous in her task, dragging out every moment as she was clearly savoring her actions. She was precise and yet unyielding as she held him down: a strong indication that this was not her first time doing something of this nature.

The cold water was now nearly to the level of his elbows and he could feel the cool tendrils of air coming off it and brushing against his forehead. Hannibal's trousers and underpants and been maneuvered off of his hips and down his legs at this point.

_... continued on Archive of Our Own. _

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**A/N:** I'm sorry my readers. FFN doesn't allow for the rest of the content of this story to be hosted on this platform. Feel free to find this story (under the same name) at Archive of Our Own. My pseudo there is User24601.


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